The Scarlet Letter

February 4, 1649


Dear Hester,

So, let me get this straight: you had an adulterous affair with a local preacher, got knocked up, went to prison, and were approved for parole on the condition you indefinitely wear an elaborate iron-on across your dress. Now, I know the cool kids in the MBC were all about the ironic bodices for a while, whether vintage (old sports’ bodices embroidered with team numbers) or custom made (the now ubiquitous “Squantotaled” and “Plymouth Rocks!”). But that was almost seven years ago, and I imagine it must be a real drag to wear the same thing every day. And accessorizing must be a bitch. I mean, what goes with a scarlet “A,” right?

But seriously. To your point, I’m pretty sure that the Puritans are part of the problem, not the solution. Over here, we’ve definitely seen the darker side of Calvin. Things got pretty ugly. Oliver Cromwell. What an ass hat. If those theocratic twats don’t reopen the nightlife soon, I’m moving to France and throwing in with the Stuarts. I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen if they were restored to the throne? Plagues and Fires? I don’t think so.

I’m thinking: why not just move? You’re a confident, self-employed, independent woman. I respect your rock-hard commitment to staying the course, and I know just how much you love exposing hypocrisy, but have you thought about taking Pearl and heading southward? I hear Connecticut is friendly to controversial women, and Virginia, once you get past the malaria and Indian massacres, is a proverbial man-trap.

Look, I know how attached are to this guy. And I’m sure he’s just as attractive and intelligent and god-fearing as you say he is. But I know you, Hester. I know how you get around men. Just like I know you have softness for assholes. I mean, remember Jack? The Miller’s son? Remember how he promised to pledge his troth to you, and then hooked up with Anne, the printer’s daughter on Palm Sunday? (She left him incidentally for this utopian fruitcake from Scotland, and last I heard Jack had second mortgaged the mill after his oxen died. Then the whole thing was burned by royalists back in ’47. Had it coming, I’d say) Or how about, while we’re on the subject, your husband? He was a real winner. Old, ugly, into mind fucking, and lest we forget, a big fat liar. And now we have Arthur What’s-his-name. Who won’t marry you, who won’t talk to you, and whose ass you’ve covered now for seven years. What has he done for you? I get the impression you’re not even getting sex anymore, and that’s just wrong.

Even if he were just as great as you say he is, I can’t imagine the unlikely possibility of a real relationship being worth you wasting seven years of your young life living among close-minded, power-tripping, self-righteous, bible-beating bigots in a shitty climate.

Get out, Hester. You have the money, the skills, and the confidence. You owe it to yourself and to your daughter. I’m begging you. And I’m not alone. Mom and Dad feel the same way. Hell, even Uncle Steve got so riled up over your last letter he is, as we speak, threatening to send some of his privateer friends over to kidnap you and take you down to the West Indies. Good old Uncle Steve.

Chuck and I are expecting our second in March. Luke, our first, has learned the alphabet, but won’t stop eating bugs. After being knocked unconscious by a turf-wielding peasant at a tavern in Ireland, Isaac is home from the Wars, recuperating at Mom and Dad’s. We worried he might suffer some mental infirmity following his, ahem, “battle wound,” but mostly it appeared to have knocked some sense into him. Or maybe the New Model Army isn’t as hip as it used to be. Hard to say, but Isaac has let his hair grow out, and he’s been working on a play, which promises to be very complex and bloody. I’ll send you a copy when (and if) he finishes it. Dad delivered the keynote address at the Merchant’s Guild. Mom lost fifteen pounds on the gruel diet, and wants you to know she can fit into her old corset again. Both send their love.

Write soon. My very best to Pearl.

And seriously, Hester, think about it. Really think about it. There’s a whole New World out there.

I love you.

Your sister,

Sarah

P.S.—Just got word they executed the king. Not sure how I feel about that. Feelings? Thoughts?